


it's not right but it's now or never.

by spock



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-23 23:26:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's always felt right but the timing never was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's not right but it's now or never.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itricochets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itricochets/gifts).



**FEBRUARY 10 th, 2007. 6 — 5, PENS in OT.**

Jordan's barely had enough time to yank his jersey up off his head and shove a hat down over what has got the best worst case of sweat-induced helmet hair he's ever had in his life before the scrum swarms him. The media guys tell him that he's just become the youngest player to score a hattie. 

His face feels like it's on fire, still riding high off the adrenaline of winning it in OT off his third of the night. He's got that post-game ache making its way through his body, pleasant enough now but he knows he'll resent Geno come morning for the way he rode him down onto the ice. And the rest of the guys for piling on top. 

They ask him how it feels to play a game on HNIC in the Leafs building that he grew up idolizing. He can hear some of the other guys talking Jordan up to their own crowds and it does nothing to help his face get any less bright. Finally someone takes pity on him and asks about how it felt to play in front the largest crowd of the regular season, all those extra people coming in to see Sid play and just like that the reporters around him seem to come to their senses and abandon him to join up with Sid's scrum.

Not long after, the staff clears the room so that Jordan and the rest of the guys can finish getting undressed and hit the showers. Geno crowds his way into Jordan's stall as he's washing his hair. " Gronk," he laughs, right into Jordan's ear. Jordan tries to angle his arm back so he can elbow Geno in the kidney, but he can't manage to connect. Geno says something else, in Russian this time, loud and booming and Jordan instinctually knows that he's talking shit.

"What did he say?" Jordan asks with his voice raised. "Tell him I'm not afraid to fight him naked, Gonch!"

"He said you're still four goals away from giving him any Calder competition." Jordan can hear his long-suffering sigh from four stalls down. What he _can't_ hear is Gonch translating what Jordan said to Geno, which is completely unfair. Before he can whine about it, Sid calls out for Geno and like with everything else, Jordan finds himself blissfully forgotten. 

"да," Geno answers, slapping the back of Jordan's thigh just shy of too-hard before making his way over to the empty stall next to Sid's, tossing, "Bye Staalsy," in his wake.

Once he's been rinsed, dried, and clothed he makes his way to the bus, eager to get back to the hotel because Scuds, Max, Bugsy, and some of the other guys promised to take him out for a few hours to celebrate the win and his hattie. 

It takes a while for their stuff to be loaded, so Jordan dicks around on his phone as he waits. There's a voicemail from home that he'll put off listening to until tomorrow. Marc and Eric both had games tonight, so they probably haven't had the time to call him. He has a few scattered texts from his friends in the Bay and guys he knew in Juniors, but nothing personal enough that he can't send a mass text of thanks in reply. 

There's one that catches his eye, though. It's from Letang, one of the Wilkes-Berre guys, sent about thirty minutes ago. They'd sort of bonded when Letang had been called up in October, but they hadn't had the chance to make anything of it before he'd been sent down again.

> _Congrats. Celly was short no?_

Jordan can't help but laugh.

> _you try to do anything fancy with a Russian machine line backing you_

It's not until after his phone chimes in confirmation that he realizes that he forgot something.

> _thanks tho. I think._

> _the stuff of dreams_

Letang sends back instantly and Jordan finds himself smiling. He remembers the way Letang would make jokes about things like Geno's lanky body and Sid's mouth during off-day practices, the way he'd press the front of his body up against Jordan's side whenever Jordan leaned against the boards to talk to him.

> _we will have to make sure you celebrate properly next time I am in the show_

Jordan must have his dopey smile plastered across his face, because all the guys instantly start giving him a hard time as they start taking their seats, grabbing for his phone.

The next day Recchin' pulls him aside before they board the plane for Chicago and tells him that he's proud of Jordan for not being hungover this morning. Jordan knows better than to tell him the only reason he was so well behaved was because he spent most of the night texting a guy on the farm team instead of paying attention to the drinks lined up in front of him, so he calls it a win.

⇣

**APRIL 11 th, 2009. 3 — 1, PENS.**

"You're my lucky charm," Tanger tells him and somehow that means that Jordan has to tag along as he goes to get his hair cut. They're in Montreal and just wrapped up their last game of the regular season. Tanger put the finishing touch on a game that undoubtedly reminded the Habs why they  
re the eighth seed, a shorty off a pass from Jordy himself. 

They're all feeling really good about this year. Making it to the finals last year — getting _so close_ — has them thinking that they know what it takes to get it done right this time.

"It's practically fucking midnight," Jordan complains as Kris leans forward to give the cabbie an address. "Are you pulling your hometown-hero card to get them to stay open late after you beat their damn team? Douche move, Letang."

Tanger snorts and reaches out between them to squeeze Jordan's thigh and then he just — leaves his hand there. Jordan's mouth dries up, does his best not to be too obvious that it's affecting him. He recently found out that Tanger had broken up with the guy he'd been seeing since the start of the season and now he isn't sure if it's finally the right time to make good on this _thing_ that'd been sparking between them since Jordan's rookie year. 

Their cab reaches its destination while Jordan's still trying to figure out post-breakup dating etiquette. Tanger shuffles him out and pays before showing Jordan through the front door. An onrush of french greets them, the place empty except for one guy with a t-shirt logo that matches the one on the display outside who wraps Kris into a hug. 

"Jordan, Mathieu. Mathieu, Jordan," Tanger introduces with his free hand, the other wrapped snugly around his friend's shoulder. Mathieu nods a hello to Jordan, which Jordan returns, before shoving Tanger over towards the sinks in the back and tossing a plastic smock over him once he has Tanger seated.

Jordan follows after them, taking a seat beside Tanger and doing his best to stay out of the way. "Mathieu played with Luc and me in the Q," he explains. Jordan can't help but notice the way his voice still wavers when saying Luc's name, so he swivels his chair to knock their feet together gently. Tanger tilts his head in Jordan's direction to flash him a smile. "But then he decides he was too good for the life of a—a—" Tanger stalls out, trying to figure out what English word he wants to use. "Lowly hockey player," he decides. "C'est très triste. So he learns to cut hair and makes us promise to only let him cut ours." 

They all laugh and after that it's just a lot of shoptalk. Jordan surmises that Mathieu must understand English better than he can speak it because he always seems to comprehend what Jordan's saying, even if he's slow to respond and can only manage shorter sentences without any strain.

When Mathieu's done with Tanger he looks as hot as he ever does. Well, hotter, even, because now his hair is actually styled instead of sweaty or stuffed under a toque. Jordan would take him with either of those hairstyles, any day of the week, so it's not like it's a great achievement or anything, but Jordan certainly appreciates Mathieu's skills nevertheless.

"You want one too?" Mathieu asks, pointing his trimming shears back towards the sinks. "I'm not mind," he tacks on when he sees the polite protest start to work its way out of Jordan's mouth.

"You know what? Sure, man. Thanks." Jordan figures that if Mathieu can somehow manage to make Tanger look hotter, than surely he can fix the mess on his head into something that'll make Tanger finally interested enough to _do_ something about it.

⇣

**APRIL 10 th, 2012. OFF-DAY PRACTICE.**

Tanger decided to forgo his usual post-game trip to see Mathieu when they were last in Montreal back in February. Instead, he offered Jordan a proposition: whichever of them can hold off on cutting their hair the longest gets to make the other do whatever he wants.

Jordan's in it to win it. He's going to demand a series of dates whenever they finish with the playoffs because after nearly six years of verbal foreplay and missed chances, he's ready to get this ball rolling once and for all.

He figures he's got an edge over Kris anyway, because dudes hair grows like nobody's business. He's got to cave before Jordan does. 

It's early April and Tanger's hair has already reached his shoulders by the time the press guys really pick up on it. Brooksie's been giving him shit about it for a month already by then, the other guys joining in more consistently now that it's obviously longer than he's ever had it . They don't know the details or implications of the bet, but that's never stopped them before. 

"I'm gonna keep it until it breaks," Tanger says to one of the TSN guys.

"It's getting a little ridiculous, but uh—Tanger looks a lot worse than I do, so I should be good," Jordan tells the same reporter.

⇣

**SUMMER, 2012. OFF-SEASON.**

Getting knocked out of the playoffs by the Flyers fucking sucks but for once Jordan doesn't have the time to really dwell on it. Once they've got their lockers cleaned out everything shifts into contract talk. He and Sid are both up for a renewal this year, with Geno, Tanger, and some of the other guys up next season. 

He spends most of his time talking to his agent and going in for meetings with Ray. The terms that management are offering aren't _bad_ , but something keeps holding him back. He's been talking to Eric in hypotheticals about them playing on the same team for as long as he can remember. Eric's too established on the Canes at this point, but as a perpetual third-liner behind Sid and Geno, Jordan knows it's up to him to make the move if he wants to make it happen.

Marc calls him too, warns him not to let Eric strong-arm him into anything. The more he thinks about it though, the more it makes sense. He knows that even if he asked Ray for a shorter length extension he'd still be enough of a cap hit that it could mess things up for renewals next year. Anything longer means he probably won't be able to play with his older brother while they're both still mostly in their respective primes. He thinks he's ready for the added pressure, too — that he can shoulder a team with his brother the same way Sid and Geno do for the Pens. 

It's a back and forth that rages on through the summer. He talks to the guys too; they give him their blessings to do whats best for himself, all the while stressing that they still want him around. With Tanger, they mostly talk around the trade rumors, chirping one another about who will crack first and cut their hair. 

At the start of June he finally gives Ray his blessing to start shopping him to the Canes. Jordan would rather forfeit his final year as Pen so that they can get something out of him through a trade than leave them high and dry once the next season is over and his contract's up.

Jordan invites the team up to his house in Thunder Bay during draft weekend. The majority of the guys show up, even the WBS ones that he's gotten to know better throughout the onslaught of injuries they dealt with during the regular season. 

Some of the guys who stay in the 'Burgh during the summer say that they're glad to have an excuse to escape the swarm of utter _hockey_ that hosting a draft brings, but Jordan can tell that they all feel like this may be the last time they're all together like this.

Sure enough, Jordan gets a call from Ray just as Bettman makes his way up to the stage to announce it to the fans and television crews camped out in the Consol, his voice an echo of what Ray's saying over the line. His agent follows up with a call not long after he hangs up with Ray, and after that it's a quick round-robin with his brothers and parents. He gets off the phone as quickly as he can, blowing them off and telling them he'll call them all tomorrow.

Everyone's spread throughout the house and deck, a choice few dicking around on his boat in the middle of the lake. Jordan doesn't want to have to be the one to break the news, still isn't completely positive he'd made the right choice in turning down the ten year extension Ray'd offered from the get-go. He sits down on the bench at the end of his deck and tries to calm himself down.

Tanger slides up next to him, waving his phone lightly in front of him. "Guess the bet is off," he says neutrally, not quite making it sound like the question it might be. Jordan feels his stomach drop. Just because he's leaving doesn't mean that he's giving up on this _thing_ they never quite manage to get running. 

"I'm still willing to try if you are," He answers honestly. "I'll probably have to get a haircut for some promo-shots of me when they do the official announcement," Jordan says around a smile. "So I hope after all these months you know what you want from me."

⇣

**DECEMBER 28 th, 2012. LOCKOUT.**

The lockout sucks, full stop, but Tanger refuses to give them the one upside that it could provide.

"You could come down to Raleigh to train with me an Eric," Jordan complains to him. They're having their weekly Skype session and Jordan has yet to decide if it's better or worse than talking on the phone in terms of his testing will-power. "Or, shit, I'll come up there!"

"You cannot train with us at Southpointe, Jordy." Kris sounds bored, probably because they've been having this conversation since September. They've just passed Christmas. Jordan can't believe the owners have dragged this shit out for so long. "You are on the Hurricanes, now, yes? Training with your old team does not look good. Lay in the bed you have made."

"Yeah well my bed's pretty lonely at this point," Jordan can't help but whine. Jordan can't go up to Tanger and with his upcoming contract renewal this summer still being on the front-burner, whether they get a season to play in or not, Kris can't exactly come and train in Canes territory without the starved hockey media scenting out a story like blood in the water.

They haven't gotten past second base yet, if quick blow jobs swapped on draft weekend followed by months of shared orgasms through Skype even counts as hitting second. 

Still, they've had a lot less to work with over the years, so Jordan knows he can make it. Probably. 

Talking about it in circles when they can't actually _do_ anything about it isn't going to help either of them though, so Jordan changes the topic. "If you do wind up playing in the KHL, just promise me you won't play on Geno's team. That's like, basically taunting Sid to go join you guys and we need his fat ass here fighting the good fight."

⇣

**APRIL 27 th, 2013. 8 — 3, PENS.**

Jordan's first season as a Cane didn't go as well as he'd hoped, but he keeps telling himself that it was a shortened season and as such, he should treat it as a wash. Maybe if he says it enough times he'll believe it.

Their last game of the season is at the Consol, a sort of poetic justice that only the league schedulers could have imagined so many months in advance. The Pens are seeded first and everyone on the main roster is pretty much healthy — sounds like Sid's jaw his healing up right on schedule, so he'll be back in time — and there's no doubt in Jordan's mind that they won't go deep this year, may possibly even win it all.

Meanwhile the Canes season ends tonight, so they give it their all. The building welcomes Jordan back with open arms, so much so that he can't believe he worried it would be mostly boos. It probably doesn't hurt that they get to watch him lose so throughly. Turns out their all wasn't all that much, which is why they didn't even seed and it's so fucking _stupid_ that — _wash of a shortened season_ , he tells himself. Repeats it a few times.

His team does their post-game interviews as quickly as possible before showering and hauling ass back to the bus, eager to put this game, this season, behind them. Jordan waves them off and says he's going to stick around for a while.

He lurks around the hallway outside the home lockers, doling out hugs and congratulations as his ex-teammates come out and head their own separate ways. 

Tanger finally comes out while he's talking to Dana, so Jordan excuses himself and makes his way over. Kris hugs him hard and Jordan just sort of — melts into it. It has to be a defencemen thing, because Marc's always given the best hugs out of all of his brothers.

"You're coming back to mine, yes?" Tanger asks, not really looking for an answer, leading Jordan through the building with a hand in the small of his back as if Jordan hadn't made that same trek hundreds of time before.

The players lot is deserted and Jordan realizes that he must've been waiting for Kris a lot longer than he originally thought. Tanger looks pleased as fuck as he herds Jordan towards his SUV, so maybe this was all a part of his plan.

He's parked all the way back against the wall next to a row of pillars. When Jordan goes towards the passenger side door, Kris pushes him so that he keeps walking until they're trapped between the back of his car and the cement wall of the complex. 

The next thing Jordan knows, he's pressed against the wall, Kris fused against his front and the world narrows down to the heat of Kris' mouth. They're basically out in the open for anyone who cares to duck around to see, but Jordan doesn't care. Nothing matters but the wet, open-mouthed kisses that Kris' pressing against his lips. The way his still-damp tendrils of his hair come loose from where they'd been slicked back to brush against their faces and filter out some of the harsh florescent light glowing down from the roof a few spaces down.

Jordan spreads his legs so Kris can crowd between them, grinding their chubbed up dicks through their dress slacks. He slides his hands down from where they'd been cradling Jordan's face, making a journey down his sides and ass until they finally settle against the backs of his thighs. Kris pulls back just enough to murmur out, "Up," before he's biting at his lips again. He hoists Jordan up so quickly that he finds himself scrambling to plant his feet against the hatch of the trunk.

He finds his equilibrium by resting most of his weight against the wall behind him on his shoulders and planting the heels of his feet on Kris' car. He balances himself with his arms wrapped around Kris' shoulders, his knees bent awkwardly up so that they're squeezing Tanger's sides and as strange as the position is, he can't exactly say it's uncomfortable. 

They make out like this for a while, Jordan rolling his dick up into Tanger's stomach, groaning at the feel of hands squeezing his ass through his dress pants, helping him keep up his rhythm. Kris pulls their mouths apart to start making his way along Jordan's jaw, kissing and licking at his chin and cheeks. "I told myself I was going to take you home," he whispers hotly into Jordan's ear, "but I prepared just in case." 

He shifts so that he's got his left arm wrapped around Jordan's waist, freeing his right up to finally — fucking _finally_ — unzip Jordan's fly and pull out Jordan's cock, jacking him tightly, hand slicked with sweat. Jordan feels too hot in the cool nights air, body on fire in his stuffy post-game outfit.

"Regardez-vous," Kris says under his breath, gripping Jordan's dick tighter. He leans forward and Jordan presses kisses onto the top of his head as Kris spits down onto Jordan's dick, spreading it around and making it just that much more _slick_. "Can you—are you able to hold yourself up?" Kris asks. Jordan tests his weight by easing off his grip on Kris' shoulders and sides for a few seconds before nodding. 

It spurs Tanger into motion. He grabs the waist of Jordan's pants and tugs them and his boxer-briefs down along his legs until they're bunched around Jordan's calves, ducking out from the cradle of his thighs for a moment when he nearly entangles himself. That settled, he fishes a condom and a small vial of lube out of his pocket before readjusting himself between Jordan's legs and getting to work on freeing his own dick, kicking his pants and underwear down so that they're pooled around his shoes. 

Jordan watches it all, huffing breaths in and out through his open mouth. Kris notices and smiles, sharp, before slipping an edge of the condom wrapper into Jordan's mouth. Jordan closes his teeth around it, holding it in place. 

One of Kris' hands settles against his waist again, the other flicking the cap off the tube and pouring lube right onto his dick. He uses his own mouth to hold the miniature bottle when he's done and recapped it, the pressure of his teeth indenting the plastic. Kris' newly freed hand spreads the lube around his cock and then he haunches his knees so that he can slip his dick back behind Jordan's balls, sliding all the way until the head is teasing Jordan's hole. 

Jordan groans, pushing back against it. Kris uses the rest of the slick on his hands to quickly ease his index finger inside of Jordan, his dick hovering and brushing against the rim, bumping up against back of Kris' hand. After a while he moves on to two fingers, reaches up to grab the bottle out of his mouth and squeeze the rest of its contents into his palm before tossing it down onto the floor, clattering away forgotten.

Jordan's dick hasn't been touched since Kris got their pants out of the way and he's mostly glad for it. It feels like he's going to come at any moment, everything so intense. His breath whooshes out of him when he feels Kris' bare cock press into him, the head barely breaching him past the crest and fucking in shallowly a few times before Kris pulls out all together and reaches his clean hand up towards Jordan's mouth.

"Morde — bite. Hard, Jordy," Kris pants and Jordan does as he's told. Kris' fingers grab a few millimeters away from where Jordan's teeth grip the edge of the foil and tears it open. Jordan lets go and Kris tosses the wrapper to the floor, too. He rolls the condom down onto himself and haunches down again, lining himself up after using the last bit of lube on his hand to slick the latex. 

"Hey, Jordy. Jordan," Kris calls. To Jordan's ears it sounds like he's miles away. Jordan's had his eyes squeezed shut since Kris' fucked him shallowly before, bare, but he manages to open them to look at Kris. He looks amazing in the shadows of the garage, face sweaty with his hair half hanging in his face, fully dressed in a two-piece suit except for where his slacks are pooled against his feet. Jordan can't imagine he looks much better.

It's perfect.

"Je t'aime," Kris says, "Love you, yeah?" He's pushing in slowly, one hand guiding himself while the other is wrapped back around Jordan's back. 

Jordan surges forward, shifting his weight onto his lower back so he can lean in and kiss Kris again, push himself down harder onto his cock. "Yeah. Me too. Love you, too." 

They find a rhythm, Jordan using his abs and the leverage his dress shoes on the trunk afford him to fuck down each time Kris fucks up into him, their thighs meeting with damp slaps. Jordan has one arm wrapped around Kris' shoulder, his hand digging into Kris' shoulder blade. The other he uses to clutch a fistful of Kris' hair, holding it back off of his face and using it to yank Kris' head around so that Jordan can kiss him just how he likes. 

Everything is rough and rushed enough that Jordan feels like he's in a haze. He knows that he's grunting words out: Kris, _faster_ , _harder_ , _more_. 

Kris gives it all to him, tells Jordan to touch himself, get at his own cock and Jordan gives up his grasp on Kris' hair to comply. When he does, Kris' head falls like a puppet that's had its strings cut, dropping to rest in the curve of Jordan's neck. Kris keeps up their pace and Jordan tries to match it, his hand moving so fast and jerkily that his wrist aches and the muscles in his forearm begin to burn and Jordan can't help himself, feels himself coming hard against the front of his shirt, probably hitting Kris in the process.

Kris keeps going, hiking Jordan up against the wall. The insides of Jordan's knees are pressed into the crooks of Kris' elbows, nearly bent in half. Kris curses and goes still for a few seconds. He kisses Jordan hard, mashing their lips and tongues together, starts thrusting again, jerky before he finishes with a lazy grind of his hips, pushing himself as deep into Jordan's body as he can go, riding the last vestiges of his orgasm.

They kiss chastely twice more before Kris pulls out while they're still riding high on endorphins and helps Jordan get his feet back on the floor without toppling either of them over.

Jordan's body already felt achy after the game, but now he feels completely wrecked. "Fuck. Good thing this was the last game of the season. I'm about ready to be put on IR, jesus," Jordan groans out.

Kris laughs. He pulls off the condom and ties it before bending down to search for its wrapper and the plastic lube bottle. "I will take care of you when we get home," he answers distractedly. "You'll be good as new by the time you have to go clear your locker."

"First time since it became official that we wouldn't seed that I've actually been glad I won't be doing the playoffs rush this year," Jordan jokes as he shakily does up his pants. By the time he finishes saying it he realizes that it's true, that he means it, and smiles. "I think your dick's magic."

Kris' got his pants done up too, the two of them looking a lot worse for wear but at least they won't get pulled over by the cops for public indecency. He kisses Jordan long and lingering, and then once more, quick and dry before turning away to walk back towards the front of the car. He presses the electronic key and unlocks the doors for both of them. "I have been telling you this since you were a rookie, do not act surprised now."

⇣

**OCOTBER 6 th, 2013. OFF-DAY.**

Jordan gets permission to head up to Pittsburgh a few days before the rest of the guys with the filmiest excuse ever concocted. They just finished playing the Flyers and that team still seems to have it in for him, which is fine by him, because that whole miserable city is still at the top of his shit list even if he doesn't wear the black & yellow any longer. They're due to play the Penguins next on the 8th, but Jordan can't wait.

He makes it to Kris' house closer to five in the morning than four. He lets himself in, drops his bag off in the living room and makes a beeline straight for Kris' bedroom. The Pens played today, too, a home game against the Sabres, so Kris is dead to the world, just like Jordan figured he'd be. He does his best to be quiet as he gets undressed and brushes his teeth, finally climbing into bed and sacking out before his head really settles into the pillow.

"Eric wants to do some sort of brunch thing with us when the team gets in," Jordan says the next afternoon. Today's an off-day for both of them, one of the luxuries granted by the season just starting, even if Jordan's on a short, two-game road stretch.

"No," Kris groans out. "I am already friends with Marc, I do not need Eric and Jared texting me nonstop, too. If you need an excuse, tell him I am still mad for him stealing you." Jordan laughs and Kris kicks him from across the couch in retaliation, which just makes Jordan laugh harder. "Just because you feel the need to recreate the sod farm does not mean we all need to be friends. Marc has promised me this isn't in the Staal charter."

"Marc's just bitter because he doesn't have his name on the Cup yet," Jordan argues. He and Eric have talked long and hard about how they'll get Marc to bend to their will eventually. Their plan is mostly based around their dad giving Marc _the look_ once the time is right. 

Someone knocks on the door just then. "It's Geno," Kris announces and that explains who he'd been texting covertly twenty minutes ago. "Go get it."

"Why would you do this to me?" Jordan laments, dragging himself off the couch and into the entryway. "I thought you loved me. This is fucked up!" 

The door doesn't even open all the way before Geno shoves his way inside, tackling Jordan down onto the hardwood floor of the hallway and shouting, "Gronk!" right into his fucking ear.


End file.
